A Trophy Beyond Compare
by tartan-angel
Summary: It is said that Lord Voldemort, or Tom Riddle as he was then called, could never feel love. This may be true, but he had always had a strong sense of possession, of ownership. And she was his.


_A/N: As always, anything recognisable belongs to J.K. Rowling, not me. This was born of a discussion I had on tumblr and a theory I have held for TRMM for a long while._

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><p>It is said that Lord Voldemort, or Tom Riddle as he was then called, could never feel love. This may be true, but he had always had a strong sense of possession, of ownership. She, being the determinedly Gryffindor witch that she was, felt compelled to bring him to the light. She needed to <em>save <em>him. He simply allowed her to try. He let her think that she was succeeding. He watched her fail.

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><p><em>It was a blustery Saturday afternoon in January and Hogwarts First-year, Tom Riddle, slipped from the school's vast oak front doors. After a few months at the school, Tom had already found that his favourite place was in the Quidditch stands. Never when there were people there, granted. Tom never had much time for his fellow students – they were far too unrefined for his tastes – and, in return, they would leave him alone long enough to prevent his mind being polluted by their trivial conversation. Of course, there had been a few people whom he had quickly seen as advantageous to his cause and these he had had no trouble in befriending. In fact, the young Slytherin had quickly found himself to be much more adept with his people skills than he would have thought, being a boy who had always enjoyed the solitude of his own room. <em>

_However, people skills were not the only thing that he had developed since arriving at Hogwarts. As a child, he had always had an inherent curiosity, and now, at Hogwarts, he was putting it to good use. He had begun to wonder where those Seventh-year Slytherin couples would slink off to after curfew so one night, as was his want, he had followed one of them._

_He had gotten half way across the ground when he realised where they were going and why._

_By no means was he a stranger to the natural urges that teenagers seemed to feel more than most, but neither was he particularly interested in them. When the couple had taken their roaming hands off to the small platform underneath the stadium that was usually used by the players to get back to the changing rooms, Tom had examined the wooden innards of the stands. Seemingly satisfied, he had climbed the almost never-ending stairs until he felt the cold night air once again assault his face._

_He could hear nothing but the sound of his own mingling thoughts; the only thing that betrayed his cool exterior._

_Now, as he headed up the familiar stairs once more, he looked forward to being lost in his thoughts once more; it was not a luxury he was afforded often._

_His contemplative mood, however was eradicated when he saw that he would not have the pitch to himself. The first thing to reach him was the cheering. It left him in no doubt that the Gryffindor team was practicing; no other House could have claimed to be more rowdy. So uncivil. The fact that these particular Gryffindors played the most barbaric game in the wizarding world only lowered them in his estimations._

_He detested this place when there were others around and he was on the verge of turning around to return to the busy Slytherin Common Room and its indefatigable occupants, when he heard an irate Scottish brogue ring out across the stadium._

"_WATCH WHAT YOU'RE DOING WITH THOSE BLOODY BLUDGERS, MARTIN! YOU ALMOST TOOK OUT YOUR ENTIRE SET OF CHASERS!" _

_Minerva McGonagall's voice was already familiar to him; she did not exactly attempt to hide it. Oh, she was a true Gryffindor. Her strong opinions were unwavering and, when she voiced them, she would growl like a lion, chewing up all opposition like prey. By no means did she lack the courage necessary for a Gryffindor; hell, she was only a second year and she was already verbally assaulting Martin Lockwood, the Seventh-year Gryffindor Quidditch Captain._

_Tom found her to be insufferably obnoxious and brash, but her intelligence… now, there was a thing of beauty. Not that she was substandard in appearance – quite the opposite, actually – but the mind was always so more appealing, Tom found. The mind would not deteriorate so quickly as the body. And McGonagall's was considerable._

"_SORRY, MOTHER!" Lockwood shouted back, earning a giggle from the only other female on the team, a Fifth-year who Tom did not recognise._

_Against his better judgement, Tom lowered himself onto a cold wooden seat in the stands. Usually, he would have left. He came here to think, after all, and he could not do that with these awful Neanderthals darting__around the pitch. On the upside, they would be so busy shouting at each other that they would most likely never sense his presence._

_He stayed for almost an hour, watching the team dive and swerve and feint. When he said 'team', he mostly meant 'McGonagall'. There was something arresting about her performance, something that would not allow him to relinquish his attention from her for a single second. Only when he heard the outraged cries of the other Gryffindors did Tom wrench his eyes away from the newest Chaser._

"_Aston!"_

"_Aston pull up!"_

_The one they called Aston was plummeting. Hurtling towards the ground, unable to pull out of the dive. Falling at incredible speeds. His teammates seemed to be frozen. They all watched in horror until – _

"_ARRESTO MOMENTUM!"_

_The boy stopped in mid-air. The entire team were staring at McGonagall._

"_Did you just do that?"_

"_Well, I suppose so… I-I don't know how…"_

_Even Tom could not help but feel his jaw slacken. Here she was, a mere Second-year, casting powerful spells with no wand, at that! Wandless magic was hard to master, even for adults. Granted, this could have been a display of accidental magic but, even so, it was a clear demonstration of immense power. Just think what could be done with such power!_

_There and then, Tom Marvolo Riddle decided that she would be his._

_Unluckily for him, however, in the opposite stands, Professor Albus Dumbledore had been sitting in the opposite stands, also keeping a keen eye on the Gryffindor Quidditch team._

"_Minerva McGonagall," his voice rang out clearly through the stadium. "You will report to my office immediately. Mr. Lockwood, please take Mr. Aston to the Hospital Wing to be checked for shock. I think it would be wise for you to conclude training for today. Back to your dormitories, please."_

_Tom stayed put as he watched the team slowly lower themselves to the ground and filter out of the stadium. McGonagall waited for Dumbledore to exit the stands and slipped into the rhythm of the old man's dawdling steps. Tom found himself staring at the wisps of black hair that were falling from their constraints and collecting around her bowed head. It was a long while before Dumbledore began talking, no doubt making some terrible joke about hags in a bar. McGonagall smiled sheepishly up at him. Tom's stomach flipped._

_Dumbledore was always in the way._

_Following his decision, Tom took months to study the queer McGonagall girl, to find out what made her tick. After all, Tom Riddle was nothing if not patient. Lord Voldemort, on the other hand…_

* * *

><p>"Tell me where she is!"<p>

"Never." The blinding flash of the curse. Fire and ice running alternately through his veins. Those demonic scarlet eyes boring into his own. He would not scream. He would not give that _thing _the satisfaction.

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><p>"<em>Riddle. Wait there, will you?" She was doing it again, calling him by his filthy Muggle father's name. He despised it. <em>_**Remember your purpose, Tom. Sometimes these minor annoyances are necessary.**_

_For now, the thought would subdue him. But, one day, he would not have to compromise. He would ensure that every man, woman and child in the wizarding world would be fearful of his name._

_For now, he needed McGonagall. Such an asset could only strengthen his assent._

"_Riddle, don't you run away from me." Only now did he cease his steps, a polite smile upon his face._

"_I am not running away, McGonagall, I am simply trying to get to my Common Room." This was a common occurrence between the two of them. Verbal sparring, that is. In fact, he had even come to enjoy it a little._

"_I wish you would stop calling me that," she said a slight pout crossing her features. After four years, Tom had seen to it that Minerva was comfortable around him. Comfortable enough, that is, to let out the childish, pouting side that she kept eternally buried otherwise._

"_The minute you stop calling me by my surname, I shall extend you the same courtesy." While his words could have been cutting under different circumstances. However, he had refined – dare he say perfected – the art of altering his tone to please the ears of those who were all too willing to listen to him. He had quickly found that a little charm could go a long way._

"_You should be careful of how you talk to people, you know. It could get you into trouble." The hypocrisy in this statement was overwhelming. So much so that Tom could not help but retort wittily._

"_This coming from the one with the mouth of a mandrake's."_

_To his surprise, McGonagall began to laugh. It was a strange laugh, not truly what one would call musical, but pleasant nonetheless. Better than a hex, anyway._

"_Was there something you wanted or am I just so irresistible that you simply had to talk to me?" Another strange thing he had picked up in his five years at Hogwarts was that the female species responded well to teasing._

"_You wish, Ri – Tom. You wish." The smirk on that dared cross her face would suggest that perhaps Tom was not the only one doing the wishing. "I've got the new duty patrol rota for you. Dippet's changed it yet again. Something about promoting House unity or some other nonsense."_

"_Nonsense? You're not for House unity?" This, he had to admit, surprised him, which surprised him all the more because he was rarely surprised by anybody anymore; people were just too predictable. All the same in their different ways._

"_Oh, of course the __**idea **__is brilliant. But ideas rarely work as well in the practical world. Every House here knows its place and I think the prejudices are a little too strong to get everybody to start holding hands under rainbows." The very image was disgusting._

"_I quite agree." He had taken to agreeing with her opinions in the end, mainly because he would never hear the end of it if he did not._

_What would it take, he wondered, to change those steadfast opinions? Sheer brute force? No, something more subtle. A subliminal coercion, perhaps. Little by little._

"_Miss McGonagall, may I see you?" Dumbledore's voice had become an instant irritant to Tom by this time; far too unnecessarily peppy. What right had he to force his false happiness on everybody?_

"_Yes, of course, Professor."_

"_It will only be a minute. I believe you wanted to talk to me about Animagus training?"_

"_Ah, yes. It was mentioned to me in passing and I suppose the idea just stuck."_

_Animagus training? She was to be an Animagus? She had never mentioned it before but her ambitions did not surprise him; she would do almost anything to get ahead. That was a trait he truly admired, something he found them to have in common except for the fact that he was willing to go much, much farther to ensure his superiority._

"_Well, we shall leave you to find your own way to the dungeons, Mr. Riddle. Good evening." Again, the false smile. His eyes did not 'twinkle' – as Minerva had put it to her moronically giggling friends – when he spoke to Tom. But when he turned back to Minerva… there it was again._

"_Good evening to you, Sir," he said as politely as he could manage. "See you later, Minerva."_

_He made sure to give her forearm a light squeeze before he moved to leave. It was a marking of his territory but he found himself somewhat satisfied at the red that crept up into Minerva's ivory cheeks and the dark frown that appeared across old Dumbledore's face._

"_Good night, Tom."_

_At every turn Tom took, that damned Dumbledore was already waiting there to steer Minerva in the 'right' direction. Rather, in the direction opposite Tom's. Tom needed to succeed. He needed her. What a marvellous trophy she would make. Her intelligence, her power, they were things of beauty and they would make her a prize beyond compare._

_He would succeed. Therefore he had decided to do the one thing that Dumbledore could not do in order to assuage the girl of her unfortunate Gryffindor stubbornness. He would make her see sense._

_He was going to seduce Minerva McGonagall._

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><p>"I will not ask you again, boy. Where is she?" He had kept his voice under control for too long. Now, it was peppered with evidence of the anger he had been using to inflict torture upon his captive.<p>

Eithan McGonagall stared straight into those burning eyes and it was the first time he felt that there was a human being somewhere behind them. After days of torture, he was no closer to losing his resolve. His stubbornness was something he liked to think he had learned from his elder sister.

And if this monster wanted her, he was going to have to get past Eithan.

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><p><em>Normally, night rounds were nothing short of torturous; who would choose to spend their evenings walking around deserted corridors rather than with the inmates of the asylum (Also known as 'fellow students')? Tom, however, had realized that this could be used to his advantage. <em>

_He let out a small false yawn that was just loud enough to be heard by his patrol partner._

"_Are you tired, Tom?" Minerva asked with what he thought was almost true concern. "I can finish up on my own if you want to go to bed." Was she suggesting that he was weak?_

"_And have you murdered on my watch? No thank you."_

_She let out an unladylike snort that the disgusting creatures of the Forbidden Forest would be proud of._

"_Murdered? The only chance I have of getting murdered here is if you decide to turn all psychopathic on me."_

"_And how do you know I won't?" Tom quirked an eyebrow as he stared straight into her eyes. To her credit, her eyes did not waver from his._

"_I don't." The faintest trace of doubt was audible in her voice. But audible it was. "But I trust you."_

_They advanced further down the corridor in a deep silence. "You should not be so wanton with that," Tom said finally._

"_I am not. Not normally. But I know you." This struck him as odd. Granted, they had talked a lot more often recently, spent a great deal more of their spare time together, but he would not venture to say that she knew him. He knew her, of course, but that was because he studied more than he spoke. Perhaps, though, he could use this false sense of security to his advantage._

_He turned to face her fully, ignoring everything else in the corridor. The flames from the torches left a marked darkness on one side of her face. It was… mysterious. Tom reached out with a steady hand to wing his fingers in the black curls that rested around her cheeks. He relished the slight widening of her emerald eyes as he leaned closer towards her. _

_In the first instant that their lips touch, there is a tentative, questioning pause. It would not do for Tom to jeopardize all he had worked for up to this point. Then, like a sudden burst of fire, her lips were moving against his, leaving their strawberry-flavoured trace behind. He had let her gain control. He regretted it._

_She was surprisingly experienced, it seemed. Not that she should not be; she was quite beautiful in some lights. As her hands wound into his hair, he found himself, for the first time he could recall, losing control of himself._

_It was a tangle of limbs and warmth and kisses. Tom could feel the heat rising inside him as he shifted his lips to trace from her ear lobe down to cross her strong jawline and again down her neck. The moan that his attentions elicited was delectable. He murmured meaningless compliments against the pale skin around her prominent collarbone. Tom paused in his ministrations to raise his eyes back to her own eye level._

"_Minerva, look at me." She obliged, moving her lust clouded eyes to meet his. "Do you trust me?"_

_A simple nod._

_He grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards the now empty Charms classroom. He had succeeded._

_A while later, the pair emerged, more than a little dishevelled, from the classroom. Tom felt a sudden warmth in his hand. Was that… yes, it most definitely was… Minerva McGonagall was holding his hand. A silence that Tom could not definitely describe as awkward dropped around them as they walked together._

"_Oh, I almost forgot!" Minerva stopped and plunged a hand into her school robes. With nimble fingers, she extracted a thin black leather-bound book. "Happy birthday. Sorry I couldn't wrap it. I'm terrible with that sort of thing."_

_Tom took the book and turned it over in his hands. In his peripheral vision, he could see her eyeing him warily, awaiting a reaction._

"_Thank you."_

_It was not until she had gone back to her dormitory that he saw the words emblazoned on the back. 'Tom Marvolo Riddle'. Written in gaudy gold lettering._

_Typical._

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><p>Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven.<p>

Eithan counted the drips of water, tracing each of their paths from the ceiling to the growing puddle on the grotty stone floor. He had lost count of how many days it had been since he had been brought to this hovel. It was not long before the dripping of water was joined by the patters of fresh blood slipping from his nostrils. It was still happening quite sporadically.

If only he had had the nouse to become a Healer.

A sliver of light become a crack and then a flood as the heavily charmed door crept open. Eithan did not need to look up to know who the visitor was. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named carried with him an air of icy cold that spread through the very being of those he met with.

"Your bravery is respected, boy." The condescending tone suggested otherwise. "But it is foolish."

"And giving up my sister would not be?"

"You are far too much like her for your own good, boy."

"I shall take that as a compliment," he replied coolly. The Dark Lord let out what may have been a laugh if it were not so distorted by hatred.

"You would be wise to simply give me what I want, you know."

"I think you have confused your definitions of wise and foolish."

"A shame. You see, I cannot go on using the cruciatus curse if it is having such minimal effect on you." He would never have admitted how much it truly was affecting him, not to anybody. For a moment, Eithan saw a glimmer of hope. T'was not to last. "Since it seems you are unwilling to comply, I will force your hand. If you will not bring me to her, I will bring her to me."

"You will not touch my sister!" The sneer on Voldemort's face chilled Eithan McGonagall. It was the last thing he would feel before he met his end.

"Avada Kedavra."

A lifeless body fell to the floor.

In the dank air of the miniscule cell, Lord Voldemort sighed.

"A shame."

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><p><em>The library was as quiet as ever. Barely anyone came here anymore, what with the schoolwide terror at the increasing number of students turning up Petrified. Tom had no reason to worry, though. Although, perhaps it was having too much of an effect on Minerva. Lately, her face had become more drawn, a testament to the stress she was under not only as Head Girl, but with N.E.W.T. examinations and petrifications as well. Tom almost felt bad that his monster was affecting her so. <em>

_Almost._

_True, he could not have her damaged – what good would she do him then? – but sometimes compromise was necessary. Not often in Tom's case but sometimes. Minerva was sitting by him now, her dark obsidian hair obscuring her face like a shield as she pored over her Transfiguration theory work. He had long given up on trying to finish his essay on Amortentia for Slughorn, but he knew the bumbling fool would not notice if he scrawled it the night before it was due. In his boredom, Tom had taken to sketching in a dark leather-bound notebook, which he found himself increasingly attached to._

_He recalled once when she had taken it from him. They were sitting on the banks of the lake, she staring out at the ripples made by the Great Squid as it danced beneath the surface, he swiftly striking a quill against the creamy page. He barely registered her inane ramblings and she was evidently beginning to realise it._

"_What is so great about that book, anyway, Tom?" Before he could respond, the damned witch had plucked the book from his clutches and held it far out of his reach. She danced along the periphery of his grasp while flicking through the pages. "What are these?" she asked, sounding half interested and half disgusted._

"_None of your business!" He had snarled through gritted teeth. "Now give it back!"_

"_What is it? Is that a skull? And a snake? Oh, how very macabre!"_

"_I said mind your own damn business, Minerva!"_

"_Alright, alright," she relented, handing the notebook back to him gently. "What is it?" she finally asked after a long while of watching Tom stare sullenly at the pages._

"_It's a method of communication I am working on." Certain levels of truth were needed, Tom found, when dealing with Minerva McGonagall._

"_Really? That is quite advanced magic, Tom." He resented the fact that she still perceived him as the young boy she had first known. He was just as powerful as her. Then, she treated everybody with a quiet air of condescension. "How do you propose to do it?"_

_He spent the next twenty minutes or so explaining the magical theory behind it, dipping lightly into the various intricacies involved, while she nodded and added a few rare remarks as to the ingenuity of it._

"_I must say that sounds rather useful. Though, perhaps instead of a stinging as an alert, you should probably try a burning; much more noticeable. Nothing strong enough to harm anybody, though. Just something distinctive."_

_They decided then to head back to the castle as the stars were just beginning to peer through the rapidly darkening sky. Unfortunately, as Tom picked up his bag, it tipped and spilled its contents over the grass. He scrambled madly to pick it all up._

"_Here," Minerva said lightly. "Let me help you." She froze as her hand touched a heavily bound leather book with deep silver lettering._

"_Is this… Tom, is this a Dark Arts book? What are you doing with this?" His face was expressionless. "Oh, Tom, you didn't? We talked about this! You promised you would stop! You cannot go on like this!"_

"_And who are you to tell me, McGonagall? Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do?"_

"_Your friend, Tom. Your girlfriend. Does my opinion not count?" Tom saw it then. That glimmer behind her eye that told him that this was not about him. It was about her and her need to save him. She was too predictable, too Gryffindor. She needed to save him and he would let her think she was succeeding._

"_Of course. I am sorry."_

_It almost sounded sincere._

* * *

><p>"My Lord." Two words. Two words were all it took to make his blood boil. Two words that he had insisted upon!<p>

"Bellatrix. You may approach." Voldemort followed his most faithful follower's movements. Her wild hair flew unhindered around her face. The oddly erotic mixture of lace and leather on her fitted black robes seemed out of place. He was aware, of course, that this was for his benefit.

He found it quite sickening.

"My Lord, we were unable to find any further information. We have searched every possible location for… the witch but she is nowhere to be found. Nobody knows where she goes outside of Hogwarts."

There was a pregnant silence.

That was never good.

"You disappoint me, Bellatrix. I thought I could trust you. You, my most loyal follower. I would have thought you would have tried harder."

"My Lord –"

"Do not interrupt me! _Crucio!_" He lifted the curse after watching the woman writhe, for a few moments, in her own agony. "You would do well, Bellatrix, to learn to respect your superiors."

"Yes, my Lord." She bowed her head like a miserable schoolchild being caught planting a rogue niffler in a rival Common Room.

"You will continue to search. Go."

He deserved his prize.

* * *

><p><em>Years after they last spoke amiably, he still held hope that he would get what he deserved. Or perhaps hope was the wrong word; long ago had he learned that hope was the downfall of greatness. What real greatness needed was a solid plan, a calculated mind and a healthy thirst for power.<em>

_Suffice to say, he possessed all three._

_Let us say, rather than hope, that he had confidence in obtaining his prize. She had deviated from the path he had set out for her. She had listened too much to those around her. Dumbledore in particular. Still, he was certain that she would return to him, even as he watched in sickened silence as she danced around Dumbledore once more. But the alluring façade of a man like Dumbledore surely could not last._

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><p>It is said that Lord Voldemort, or Tom Riddle, whichever you should choose, could never feel love. This may be true, but he had always had a strong sense of possession, of ownership. She, being the determinedly Gryffindor witch that she was, had chosen the opposition over him. But from the very first touch, she was tainted. She was his trophy, his prize, and he would do anything to keep her as such.<p> 


End file.
